Conversations With a Priest
by InoFan
Summary: Duo struggles with his belief in faith.


Duo is my favorite of all the Gundam pilots followed by Wufei. 2003 was my Gundam phase and I really loved writing for Duo. 

I remember the first time I stepped inside of a church. 

It wasn't that long ago, but it feels like ages. The carpet was royal blue, and stretched up to an altar set back from candle after candle. It smelled of an early morning wash, and robes laid to rest in moth balls. There was the metallic taste of fear clinging to the back of my tongue. I remember that clearly. I think I feared my muddy shoes would soil it. Or maybe it went deeper than that. Maybe I was afraid I wouldn't be considered worthy, and would be cast back onto the tile in shame and reproach. 

My mouth had gone dry, as if all of the spit had suddenly been sucked up to whatever secret place made it. Against ribs too thin, my heart thudded, surely an offense worthy of punishment in such a place as that -- hushed and reverent and still. I felt shabby, small, and piteous. My hands, those hands which had, with nimble, sure fingers, taken what wasn't mine time and again, rubbed their dampness against the faded cloth, too big for my emaciated frame, and clenched and stretched until prominent wrinkles stood out starkly against the black. 

But not him. He belonged. In rags, he belonged. I could see it in the bowed curve of his head, in the way his eyes softened when he fastened them on the unmoving form of Christ nailed to the cross. God knew Father Maxwell, and Father Maxwell knew God. 

While I... I wasn't even sure God existed. 

Yet, he had turned back for me, extended his hand. I recall accepting, sliding my cold one into his warm one, and following on leaden feet and numb legs; swallowed whole by a feeling of awe and other emotions for which I had no name. 

I hadn't known what to say. The Lord's Prayer eluded me, and so I had simply listened while Father Maxwell said what I couldn't. 

It's night now. Rain falls steadily, drenching me, leaving me cold and shivering. I´m halfway up the steps leading to God's House, as if I can't quite make up my mind to go in. A mirthless, half-laugh escapes from freezing, nearly numb lips, because this is the only place never locked. It's open to anyone who wants to be saved. Only, I could never figure out just what is meant by that. 

Still, whatever my reason, better in there, than out here. It's probably a hell of a lot warmer. 

It's not the same church. I didn't expect it to be. The carpet is a dark, vivid red. The pews are many, and the ceiling vaulted. The air smells faintly of lemon and dust. And as before, I stop, as if at some invisible barrier between carpet and tile. I'm weary, bruised, torn in so many places and so many ways it isn't clear anymore. I don't know why I'm here. I don't know what I expect to find. 

Out of respect, I remove my hat. It's almost like being at the dinner table, only the scolding would come from eyes I can't, and don't think I ever will see. 

I'm afraid again. To dirty the floor. Of rejection. My sins are plentiful, and visible and I really have no right. I broke one of the Ten Commandments, after all, repeatedly and without remorse. I don't think God would forgive deliberate sinning without repentance. 

There is no Father Maxwell to lead me across. I'm going to have to do this one all on my own. I've been on my own so long, you'd think it would be easy. But the pressure in my chest is building, and it isn't only from the pain. In acknowledgement, I touch my shoulder, watch my fingers come away red, and step. 

First one foot, and then the other. The rain falls steadily, drumming softly on the roof above me, outside the door behind me. 

I walk slowly, as if I'm an old cripple, not a young kid with time ahead of me to make of it what I want. 

The gateway of candles stops me short of reaching the altar. Through the damp, shaggy strands of my bangs, I stare at Jesus immortalized in wood and stone. What did it feel like to be so persecuted, yet so loved? Was he always sure in his path, knowing that he would die, but doing what needed to be done anyway? 

"May I be of service, my son?" 

Startled, I swing around to face the owner of the soft voice. 

A priest. Thin, and slight, in robes too thick, too voluminous. Yet, his face is smooth and his hands are steady. There isn't anything pushy or pretentious about this man. A wholehearted servant of God. 

It strikes me that he looks nothing like Father Maxwell. 

"I don't know why I'm here," I rasp, as if I haven't spoken in forever. 

His expression is kind. "Most don't." He looks to the altar. "God knows. He understands." 

"How do you know?" I demand, and I'm angry. 

There's a calm in his face as he matches my gaze, and then drops his eyes to the flash of silver hanging outside my collar. 

"Faith tells me." 

Faith. I feel torn, and bitter. Faith isn't a word I trust, or value. It has no meaning to me in a world where death and loss are a constant. 

"Faith isn't something you can see," he continues, as if he were privy to my thoughts. "It is something you feel." 

I feel nothing. Hollow, aching, bereft of warmth. What was it? Comfortably numb. 

What the fuck do I care? I just stood and watched, helpless, as one of the few things that mattered to me was taken away, as all things inevitably are. I'm impatient, so I forewent rest and too to the streets before I was fully healed from wounds inflicted by equally impatient and intolerant hands. 

"You're injured." 

I look down. Blood, mixed with rain, is slipping from my fingers, one drop at a time. 

"Sorry." 

Something like amusement glimmers in his eyes. "Carpets can be replaced, son, people cannot. Here, follow me." 

His footfalls make no sound as he leads me away. No wonder I didn't hear him approach. 

We leave the cathedral and enter a long, narrow hall. He gestures to a small, cramped restroom. Nervous, though I know I shouldn't be, I enter into the dark space, bumping my elbow against a paper towel dispenser. Muttering my displeasure, I rub the ache as he flips on the light. 

"Why don't you remove your coat and have a seat on the commode." 

I don't know why, but that amuses me. Who calls a toilet a commode anymore? 

My coat is wet and heavy, and I can't say that I'm sorry to shed it. It was stealing what warmth I have left, and I shiver in the poorly ventilated space. 

"What have we got here?" He gestures to my shoulder. 

"Persuasion." Sighing, my posture weary with pain, I unbutton my shirt and pull it aside. A nasty, curved gash about the length of pack of cigarettes is bleeding profusely beneath an ineffective bandage. For something so small, it sure as hell makes a lot of fuss. 

A brief frown surfaces as he pulls the piece of cotton aside and assesses it. But he doesn't comment on my odd reply, only says, "You really should go to the hospital." 

I flash him a grin. "I can't afford that." And I'm not just talking about money. I can't risk notice. There are quite a few people who want to get their hands on me. 

Accepting that without question, he nods. He rummages through the cabinet above my head and pulls out some gauze, tape, and a dreaded bottle of rubbing alcohol. I watch it warily. 

He pours a bit on some gauze. 

"This will sting." 

No kidding. I grit my teeth, hissing against the burn. 

He's efficient, and quick, patting my skin dry before applying pressure with more bandages. That hurts too. 

"If you have need of confession, nothing you share with me will leave this church." 

Surprised, I meet his gaze. His expression isn't particularly amiable, but neither is it judgmental. For a moment, the need to speak, to spill all of my personal demons and worries I carry like badges that prove my existence, is strong. 

I shake my head, another smile coming easily to me, because smiles always do. "Nice try, Father. But you don't want me to share my sins." 

"That is your decision," he concedes. 

My eyes narrow in consideration. "It must be a burden, carrying all that around." 

He pulls the stained gauze away, notes that the bleeding has slowed, and places fresh bandages, before his eyes finally flicker to mine. 

"I consider it a gift. Those things were shared with me, and doing God's work has never been a burden." 

"See, that's where I could never be a priest. I mean, beside the fact that I'm obviously going to Hell. I just don't think I could carry the weight of other people's sins when I've got enough of my own." 

"We've all sinned. Forgiveness is for those who seek it." 

My tone is derisive, and my expression cynical. "I don't believe it's that easy." 

"Then I am sorry for you." 

I shrug my way from the toilet, pull my shirt on, button it up. "I appreciate this Father, but I don't need your pity." 

For the first time, he smiles. I'm struck motionless by what must be genuine. I don't think I've ever smiled and meant it. Not that I could recall. 

"How old are you, son?" 

"Fifteen." 

"Age is relative." 

I wonder about his point. 

"Yeah." I shrug. "And death is real. So?" 

His expression goes distant. His eyes shadow and wander. "The world is not always a kind place. You must learn to love it, even when it is cruel, not merely tolerate it. Existing simply because you are, isn't living." 

I consider that. "I live the only way I know how." Maybe it's not right, but it's always been enough for me. 

"You have much life ahead of you." 

"I know. I've heard the lecture before." Still, I don't tell him I push the limits nearly everyday. One of these times, I'm not going to be so lucky. 

I reach for my coat. His words stop me. 

"Do you believe in something you can't explain, or can't see?" 

Do I? Do I believe? Maybe. I don't actually know. 

"Maybe," I admit. 

"That is what loving God is like. Being unable to see Him has not diminished my faith. I don't need to see what I feel." 

To cover my unease, I laugh. "You can't convert me Father, so you might as well give it up." 

His hand lifts, and I find he's fast for a priest. When he takes my cross in his fingers, I struggle to quell the rising panic. Being without that is almost like being naked. Is that what he feels when he removes his cross, if he ever does? 

"Why do you wear this if you don't believe?" 

Suddenly, irrationally angry, I pull it back, tuck it out of sight. "It was a gift." 

So why do I wear it? To remember Father Maxwell, or to honor him? Or is it because, in some small place, where I haven't grown from that little boy, I want to have the faith of a child? 

"Objects are powerful when we transfer emotions onto them." 

I think of Deathscythe, of what he has come to mean to me outside the context of war. And this cross I wear like a shield that can ward off death. But, of course, it can't. Does it give me a little peace thinking it might? 

"We all need anchors, Father." My eyes fall to his own cross. "We'd be naked without them." 

He smiles again. "'The flesh is weak'...?" 

I chuckle. I can't help it. "Well, somehow I think God had other things in mind when he came up with that one. But yeah, something like that." 

He takes me back to the altar, and we stand, staring. I wonder how many others have stood here, seeking. Answers, peace, salvation. Could a wooden statue give that, or was God just another symbol created to offer solace? It's undeniable that I find comfort in standing here, but whether it's the warmth of the heater or something else, I don't know. 

Soon, I'll slip into the rain and the night, and I'll be a Gundam Pilot still. The thought offers little pleasure, only grim reality. Like Duo Maxwell, it's just another label. It can't tell you what I am, or what I feel. But then, as humans, we aren't comfortable with anything that doesn't fit into neat spaces. So call me a terrorist if you like. In some ways, we all are. 


End file.
